


Sons of Kotir

by Adrastos



Series: Tales of Mossflower [3]
Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, Introspection, Not Beta Read, Politics, Probably some romance somehwere along the line, Sequel, War, epidemiology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27854582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrastos/pseuds/Adrastos
Summary: The status quo Mossflower has enjoyed for the past three years begins to fracture with the arrival of a weary traveler from the far Northlands, one with news of enemies long since nearly forgotten, and is later shattered completely by a group of mice fleeing plague and death in the East. For Martin, this means a chance to set right what he views as one of his biggest mistakes by liberating the slaves in the far-off fortress of Marshank. For Gingivere, it means the sudden assumption of the responsibilities he was born to inherit.For both, it means that their strengths and the lessons learned as the sons of Verdauga Greeneyes will be tested to their absolute limit.
Series: Tales of Mossflower [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834474
Comments: 31
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

The wind off the Eastern Coast cut through Keyla’s ragged clothing and fur alike as the otter struggled his way back out of the forest, causing him to shiver hard enough that the firewood stacked in his paws threatened to spill onto the frozen dirt. Unwilling to let that happen, Keyla paused just long enough to tighten his grit and force his body still. The corsairs would have no cause to beat him today, at least not over the firewood, particularly since the fox Skalrag looked as though he was in the mood to dish a particularly harsh reprimand out to any slave he felt needed one.

_Well,_ Keyla thought grimly, _it won’t be me you strike._ Denying a corsair the chance to hurt him was about as small a victory as he could think of, but it was a victory all the same, and in his years as a slave he’d learned that that was the best way to cope with the day-to-day torments. It certainly served better than holding out hope for a miraculous escape from Marshank or for some liberator from a far-off land to appear, at any rate.

Keyla’s reverie was abruptly broken off by a massive clatter from somewhere behind him. _Oh, blast it all. Who dropped their pile?_ Unwilling to risk dropping his own by looking back to see what was going on, he nonetheless winced in sympathy to the poor creature; it seemed that Skalrag was about to get his wish anyways.

“Oi, mouse! What in the gates of hell’d you go doing that for?” Sure enough, Skalrag’s voice snapped out into moments later. “Lord Badrang wants all the firewood back as soon as possible, remember? Stop slowing everybeast down!”

_Come on,_ Keyla prayed, _just apologize and pick everything up. You might be able to head him off._

Unfortunately, the mouse, whoever she was, did not seem to be the type to realize that. “Oh, come off it, you old villain!” She answered in a waspish tone. “Can’t you see I’m too old to be collecting firewood? My paws can barely even hold a single bloody log, let alone an entire pile!”

Although his back was still to the poor mouse, Keyla was still able to hear Skalrag strike her clear across the face with the back of his paw. “Oh, so the old mouse thinks she gets to tell me what she can and can’t do, does she?” He heard a _crack_ , and shortly afterwards heard the mouse cry out in pain, and wondered which bones Skalrag had broken.

“Still think you can tell me what to do now?” Another _crack._ “Hard to do that with a broken rib, let alone a broken wrist, isn’t it? How about if on top of that I give you a broken – ”

“ _SIRE_!” Unable to contain himself any longer Keyla whirled around, somehow managing to keep his firewood from spilling out of nearly-numb paws as he did, until he was face-to-face with the fox and his now-whimpering victim. “Please have mercy on her. She obviously _didn’t_ remember that we needed to get back to Marshank quickly – none of us slaves are as clever as a fox like you, after all. And like you said, we need to hurry, don’t we?”

“But a cork in it, otter, unless you think _you_ need some discipline as well.” Skalrag advanced towards Keyla a few steps before hesitating, and his eyes narrowed. “Although… I suppose you’re right that we’re falling behind too much as-is.” Stepping back, the fox’s cruel eyes swept over all the slaves. “It seems that your little mouse friend has bought all of you some extra work. Grab her firewood and get moving, or she won’t be the only one with broken bones tonight.”

All the slaves gathered answered in the affirmative before hurriedly complying with the new orders. After doing so a pair of squirrels started towards the mouse as if to help her, but with a crack of his whip Skalrag made them stop.

“Leave her. She’s dead weight to us.”

Nobeast was foolish enough to protest. Keyla started forwards again after tearing his eyes away from the creature still moaning on the ground, fighting to keep his anger at bay long enough to finish the cold, miserable walk back to the fortress.

“Geum’s dead.” Hillgorse announced the news to the rest of the slaves at supper. “I saw Gurrad throw the body to the gulls a few minutes ago.” The old hedgehog paused long enough to compose himself before he spoke again. “May she find peace in the Dark Forest, where nobeast can hurt her.”

The entire slave compound was silent; although none of them had really _liked_ the old mouse and her acid tongue _per se_ , every creature that died at the paws of the Marshank corsairs was a creature they mourned.

“What happened to her?” A little mouse asked.

“It was Skalrag.” Keyla spoke the words without even deciding to talk, not even looking up from his food. “That damned fox beat her to death because she was too old while I just…stood there and _watched_.”

Keyla felt a comforting paw on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Barkjon, an elderly squirrel. “There was nothing you could do. Once Skalrag and all those like him decide they want to bully us, there is little we can do.”

“Aye, at least while Badrang lives.” This time it was Barkjon’s son, Felldoh, who spoke. “Without old ironpaw begging them on they’d all scatter to the winds like the cowards they are.” The young squirrel slammed the ground with his paw. “Oh, if only one of us could get at him and make him pay for everything he’s done!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, lad.” A vole by the name of Druwp shook his head. “Badrang’s too well-guarded for anybeast to get at him, and even if they could somehow get him alone none of us can take on a stoat in single combat.”

“But one creature did! Don’t you lot remember that mouse from three years ago?” Felldoh laughed. “He’s the entire reason why Badrang had to get his iron paw in the first place! Now, if we could somehow figure out a way to get his aid…” He trailed off, hoping that some other creature would pick up his idea.

Instead, all Felldoh got was a sigh from his father. “Son, I wish I could share your enthusiasm. But, sad to say, the odds that we’ll ever see that warrior mouse again are tiny. He had the accent of a creature from Mossflower, make no mistake on that, and those southrons live far from here. Too far for us to go to them for help, I’m afraid.”

That set Felldoh to arguing with his father, but Keyla paid it no mind. As Barkjon had said, whoever that mouse had been he was surely far away from Marshank and Badrang.

The idea of going to him for help was ridiculous.

And yet, for some reason, the idea refused to leave Keyla’s head that night, nor did it leave the next morning, and if anything it only intensified as he battled his way through the frozen winds to the forest for more firewood.

_Don’t be absurd_ , he admonished himself as he bent over a group of twigs, _there’s no way you could even get more than five minutes away from Marshank before they noticed you’re gone, let alone make your way south to this ‘Mossflower’ place._ He probably wouldn’t be able to take more than twenty pawsteps before Skalrag grabbed him for trying to escape, and if that happened the only mouse he’d be encountering would be poor old Geum.

Keyla sighed, stood up, and looked around for Skalrag in order to ram the impossibility of escape home.

_Hey, wait a minute. Where is he?_ Keyla looked to his left and found his view oddly devoid of cruel foxes. The view to his right was the same, as was the view behind him. Keyla looked up and realized he was in a clearing, with the sun shining down and casting shadows on the forest floor, as if conveniently letting the otter know which direction was south.

South was tantalizingly close and tantalizingly devoid of corsairs…

_No. It’s ridiculous. You don’t even know where Mossflower is…_

But supposing he could find out and get there…

Keyla looked around again and strained to listen, hoping to catch some sign of Skalrag or some other slaver.

The only sounds he could hear came from the northeast, and were surprisingly faint…

Slowly, quietly, not even daring to breath, Keyla placed the twigs back on the ground. Then, not wasting another second and risking losing his nerve, he took off south through the forest.

South, towards the faint hope of salvation for the slaves of Marshank.

***

With one last gasp, one as faint and weak as anything the old Abbess had ever heard before, sister Ethnella’s grip on Germaine’s paw grew weak as the sick mouse perished. She was the tenth to perish that day, and the hundred and eighth in total.

_That’s nearly half the abbey_ , Germaine thought as she closed Ethnella’s eyes for the last time and stood up. _All dead in less than half a year. By the fur, I knew Dryditch Fever was deadly, but I could never have imagined…_

Germaine shook her head. Ruminating on the fever wouldn’t change what had happened, nor would it cause the plague to vanish from Loamhedge.

Besides, she needed to make the announcement. Germaine looked around the room, taking in the sight of those passed for the last time, and straightened herself as she walked out into Loamhedge’s great courtyard. The deep tones of the bell rang out as she continued through the empty cloisters, ringing both to announce the dead and to call all those still alive to the great hall, and to Germaine the sound seemed almost to have a third meaning: nothing less than the death knell of Loamhedge abbey.

Germaine felt a paw tap her shoulder just as she was about to open the doors to the great hall, and turned to see Columbine standing behind her with a grim expression.

“Is it time?” She asked.

“Yes.” Germaine nodded. “As if this morning, over a hundred have died. We…we can no longer remain here. I almost fear that this site has become cursed.”

“And Ethnella? Was she…”

“She was. Ethnella is the hundred and eighth person to have passed.” Germaine dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “May she and all the others we have lost find everlasting peace in the Dark Forest.”

Columbine stood still for a moment, in shock at the number, before whirling and slamming the door hard enough that Germaine was surprised she didn’t break her paw. “Damn it!”

“Sister Columbine! This is still an abbey, so please, don’t speak like that.”

Tears had begun to flow down Columbine’s face. “I’m sorry Abbess, but it’s my fault she’s gone. I should have realized what was happening when she told me that she was beginning to overheat during supper prayers.”

“No, child, it’s not your fault.” Germaine gently clasped Columbine’s paw in hers. “Nobeast could have seen any of this coming.” Still holding the younger mouse’s paw, she pushed open the great oaken doors. Now, come – I must make the announcement.”

The great hall was silent and half-empty, the effects combining to make it feel less like a building and more like a massive cavern. In happier times Germaine might have had to suppress a smile at the appropriateness of that, but today all she could do was clear her throat, take a deep breath, and address the crowd of scared postulants in front of her.

“Brothers and sisters of Loamhedge, not long ago I stood in this very spot and promised to you all that our beloved abbey would stand strong and triumph over this latest crisis. Today, I am here to say the opposite. I have failed to live up to that promise, and have failed you all.

“Brother Paul. Sister Zinnia. Sister Joan. Brother Bernard. Sister Martha. Sister Fiore. Sister Iris. Brother Seteth. Brother Gerald. Sister Ethnella. These ten are merely the latest in the line of those whom have been sent to rest in the Dark Forest, and if we continue on as we have been I fear it will only be a matter of time until the rest of us all go to join them. No, the only option we have – the only hope _I have_ – if anybeast is to escape this catastrophe is to do what is the most drastic action we could possibly take.

“We have no choice. We must abandon Loamhedge, in the hopes that by leaving we will find ourselves outside of the reach of this disease.”

As Germaine had expected, her announcement threw the entire chamber into an uproar: although it was highly unlikely that none of those present had never even considered the notion, the knowledge that the _Abbess_ of all mice had thought about it – let alone that she’d decided to actually go for it – was almost absurd.

Germaine let the chaos reign for a few moments before raising her paw. “Please, quiet! I am truly, deeply sorry that it had to come to this, sorry that I couldn’t have stopped it, but there is nothing we can do.”

Germaine’s vision swam, and she realized that she had a massive lump in her throat. Taking more deep breaths, she steadied herself.

“We must leave, and we must do it soon, or we will all die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here comes the full-on sequel. As with my Lilo & Stitch fic this probably isn't going to be updated weekly like how Martin Greeneyes was, but with any luck I'll be able to still get out two or three chapters per month.   
> Anyhoo, as for the fic itself:  
> Sorry if this prologue seems a bit too grimdark: trying to set the stakes a bit, but I promise that this won't exactly become one massive gest of edginess.   
> Also I'd like to note immediately that the fact that I'm going to be focusing a fair bit on the plague that drove Germaine, Columbine, and the other mice out of Loamhedge - which I'm combining with the Dryditch Fever from Salamandastron for convenience's sake - in a fic created the same year as the COVID-19 Pandemic is genuinely a coincidence; my initial plans for this fic, including the disease plot, first began to germinate well before the Pandemic exploded to the state it is now.  
> Anyways, sorry for the gap between the interim fic 'Seasons of Peace' and a full-on sequel, and I hope that this'll be another good one.  
> -Adrastos


	2. Winter Night

The sky was almost entirely gray, tinged only with the faintest oranges and scarlets of a rapidly approaching sunset, and as though in response to the uniformity above the ground was covered entirely in ankle-deep snow. Shoes and fur already soaked through, Keyla tried to suppress the pain in his footpaws and tightened his ragged scarf against a wind from the west.

It was now midwinter, and he had been on his desperate quest for aid for a good two months now. At least, he _thought_ it had been two months – doing nothing but walking in a single direction tended to cause the days to blend together even worse than working as a slave in Marshank had, and so he wasn’t sure.

Nor was Keyla even sure that he was on the right track; although he had learned what he should be looking for from a tribe of rats he’d encountered some time ago, namely a massive fortress named Kotir, there was a definite possibility that he’d just wind up walking right past it. After all, the world was a massive place, and he had no way of knowing whether he was even anywhere near Mossflower.

Raising his head, Keyla looked around. _All I see are a bunch of white trees. For all I know, Kotir could be twenty miles to the west in a clearing somewhere._ He sighed, head bent back down, and continued forwards. There was nothing else he could do but walk, and hope that his worst fears were mistaken.

He had only managed to trudge forwards another hundred pawsteps or so when he smelled it. The unmistakable smell of a hearthfire drifted to Keyla from his Southwest, and along with it the tiniest hint of an unfamiliar spice. The scent made Keyla realize that he’d not eaten in over a day, and immediately his stomach growled.

All the same, Keyla hesitated before starting after the elusive fire: after all, there was no way to tell whether or not it would be friends or foes. _Perhaps I should just keep walking._ But then his stomach growled again, hard enough that the otter nearly doubled over in pain, and so Keyla changed course and began walking southwest.

Eyes bent downwards and all his focus on the promise of food wafting through the air, Keyla was oblivious to everything above head level and thus missed the massive castle along with the twinkling lights of the medium-sized down that it loomed over.

Without knowing it Keyla had finally reached Mossflower, land of the Wildcats.

***

The scent that had proved so enticing to the starving otter was in fact the scent of wood-cooked bread, currently being made in the fires of Ben and Goody Stickle. Their younger set of twins, Spike and Posy, had just had their birthday, and so in celebration Mr. and Mrs. Stickle had decided to use the last bit of cumin Gonff had brought from Kotir the last time he visited. All six of the hedgehogs sat around the fireplace as it crackled merrily, warming their paws as they listened to the night winds howling against the roof, each trying harder than the next not to salivate.

Just before it was time to pull the bread out from the fire, they heard somebeast knock on the door.

Ben Stickle sprang to his paws and walked over to the door, his heart in his throat. It was probably nothing, he knew, but still he couldn’t help but worry. Even now, a good three years later, whenever somebeast knocked the old hedgehog couldn’t help but flash back to that horrid night when Tsarmina’s lot had burst in and dragged them out by the point of a spear.

Fighting to keep his sudden jolt of fear down, Ben stopped just before grabbing the door handle. “Who is it?”

“Tis oi, Ben! Tis Urthclaw. Open up, burr, it’m be bloody freezen out yurr.”

The sound of molespeak caused the tension in Ben’s shoulders to immediately dissipate, and he opened the door with a smile. “Well, then, stop freezing your paws off and come inside! We’re just about to eat Spike and Posy’s birthday supper!”

“Thankee kindly!” Urthclaw’s nose began to twitch the moment he came through the doorway and was confronted with the overwhelming aroma of baked goods. “Boi the fur, that there bread be smellin’ like heaven!”

Goody chuckled. “Thank you, Urthclaw. I think we should have enough for seven? Although your portion may wind up being a little smaller.”

Urthclaw shrugged. “No matter, marm. Oi’m just ‘appy you’m lettin’ me have some.”

As they all sat down at the table – or on the floor, in Urthclaw’s case – and Goody began to divvy up the bread, there was another knock on the door.

“Open up! This is an official Kotir patrol, so get this door open!”

All the color immediately drained from Ben’s face. Seeing it, Goody put down her bread knife in order to reach over and gently touch his paw.

“It’s alright, Ben. I’ll answer the door.” As Goody crossed to the doorway the knocks grew more and more insistent, prompting the hedgehog to roll her eyes in amusement before swinging the door open.

Paw raised mid-knock, the ferret Blacktooth stumbled forwards into the newly opened doorway, nearly tripping over his own spear. The action raised a chorus of chuckles from the four young hedgehogs still around the table, a chorus which the poor ferret gamely pretended not to hear. Shortly behind him another soldier stepped through the doorway, a mouse that Goody felt fairly sure was named Brinty.

Smiling and visibly suppressing his own mirth at Blacktooth’s mishap, Brinty doffed his cap and gave a little bow. “Evening, miss Stickle. Thanks for letting us in – it’s bleedin’ cold out there.”

“Well, we didn’t exactly have a choice, now did we?”

“Um, _technically_ not, but, ah, we appreciate it all the same.”

Goody waved a paw. “Think nothing of it, I’m just pulling your tail.”

“You’ll learn soon enough she’s fond of doing that, matey.” Blacktooth smirked at his companion. “She is the one that raised a certain ‘Prince of Mousethieves’, after all.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“What brings you down into Moss Town anyways?” Ben had managed to regain his nerve, and now he set about pouring two small cups of cordial for the newcomers.

Blacktooth shrugged. “Gingivere’s got us roaming up and down, checking in on every household to make sure that everybeast is making it through the blizzard alright.”

“Mm-hmm?” Urthclaw nodded theatrically. “That’s the entoire truth? You’m not here to take urr bread foir ‘taxes’?”

“N-no! Of course not!” Brinty had just taken a good swig of drink only to sputter it back up. “We didn’t even smell it, honest!”

“Well, you can’t have it!” Ferdy dashed forwards holding a little stick. “It’s for Posy ‘n Spike, not for you all! And Mum ‘n Dad already paid their taxes this year, so leave us alone!”

Years of dealing with Tsarmina and her bullies had taught Ben and Goody to fear that any soldier in the Thousand-Eye army would respond to such an act by smacking the offending child clear across the room and threatening to gut them like a fish, but to their immense relief Blacktooth merely yelped a bit, laughed, and jumped back a few steps.

“Stay back, now!” The ferret gave a few playful jabs with his spear. “We’re not here to steal your food, Ferdy, promise!”

“Although we wouldn’t say no if it was offered?” Brinty gave Ben his most hopeful look, but the hedgehog shook his head.

“Sorry, we don’t have enough. Blame Urthclaw showing up unexpectedly.”

“Oi? ‘Ow was oi s’posed to know they’d come a’knockin?”

Brinty shrugged. “Ah, well. Can’t blame a mouse for trying.”

“Say, Ferdy, how about we make a wager?” Blacktooth had a nasty grin on his face. “Howzabout we fight ourselves a little snow duel? I win, you give me your share of the bread.”

“Deal!”

Smiling, Blacktooth opened the door and beckoned Ferdy to follow him outside. “Anybeast care to watch?” He asked.

“Sure, why not?” Brinty pulled his cloak tighter against his neck. “It’ll stop me drooling all over the Stickles’ floor, at the very least.”

The mouse shut the door behind him, and soon after everybeast could hear the telltale sounds of snowballs whirling through the night air.

Shaking his head, Ben sighed and sat back down. “You know, if somebeast had told me five years ago that my son would be challenging Kotir soldiers to snowball fights, or even that we’d be getting along with them at all, I’d’ve called them mad.”

“Oi be thinkin’ it’s gudd. It’s noice t’ walk around and no’ worry about a real narsty creature ‘urtin moi.”

“You know what Ferdy told me, Mum?” Coggs interjected. “A couple days ago he said that when he gets old enough he wants to just up and join ‘em! Can you believe it? Ferdy, in the – ”

“ _MUM! DAD!_ ” The door burst open and Ferdy ran back into the house, cheeks bright red from the cold. “You have to come and see! It’s Brinty and Blacktooth!”

“Not sure what was going on, Goody and Ben motioned the other three young ones to stay inside before running out with Ferdy. Breathlessly, the little hedgehog pointed towards three creatures fighting a small distance away.

“Blacktooth and I were throwing snowballs when Brinty saw that otter over there stumbling towards our house, but when the two went over to see if he was alright the otter started attacking them!”

Ben winced upon seeing the otter’s fist crack Blacktooth straight across the jaw. “Why?”

“I dunno! I _think_ I heard the otter say something like ‘get away from me, you vermin’, and then all of a sudden he tried to hit Brinty in the stomach, and then they started fighting!”

“Must be some traveler from outside Mossflower.” Goody shook her head. “Poor creature’s probably only ever been around the sort of ferrets you get in bandit hordes or corsair ships. Should we do something, Ben?”

Ben bit his lip, again feeling the instincts he’d been forced to develop thanks to Tsarmina war against his more recent experiences, until the latter won out and the hedgehog began to run towards the three combatants.

“Hey, otter! Easy, they’re not going to hurt you! _Easy,_ I said! It’s alright!” All his shouts gave the otter absolutely zero pause, and indeed he proceeded to shove Blacktooth to the ground before pressing a footpaw directly down on the ferret’s throat. Ben winced again before gritting his teeth and breaking into a full sprint, tackling the otter into the snow and pinning his paws to his back.

“Are you mad, hedgehog?” The otter yelled. “Why’re you taking _their_ side?”

“Am _I_ mad? I’m not the one who was just trying to commit a double homicide! What in the gates of hell is wrong with you?”

“They grabbed me! What was I supposed to do?”

Ben looked over at the two soldiers, both of whom were leaning on their spears and panting. “Explain, please.”

Blacktooth looked abashed. “We were only trying to take him to your house for a bit. Thought he could barely walk, honestly.” Massaging his neck he glared at the otter. “Apparently I wrong.”

The otter snorted. “Ha! I rather doubt that. Not like any ferret’s ever bothered helping me before.”

“Oh, really? How many ferret’s you’ve ever bother to actually talk with, matey?”

“Enough to know you lot are nothing but vermin, you great bully.”

Before Ben could so much as open his mouth Blacktooth had lunged forwards and pointed his spear right at the otter’s face. “Oi! Don’t you ever, _ever_ call me that, unless you want a –”

“Easy, Blacktooth.” Goody drew Blacktooth back, her paw on his shoulder. “Look at him – he’s obviously had a hard life.” Kneeling down, she looked the otter straight in the eyes. “Where do you come from?”

“The northlands. Fort Marshank, properly, although it’s no home of mine.”

All those present immediately connected the dots. _Ah,_ Ben thought, _poor creature’s an escaped slave._ “What’s your name, son?”

“Keyla.”

“Well, Keyla, let me tell you as somebeast who’s lived around here his entire life: I’ve known plenty of ferrets, and I can tell you from experience that Blacktooth here’s no vermin. He’s a goodbeast, most of the time.”

“He just threatened to skewer me!”

“To be fair, matey, you did just try and crush his neck.” Brinty rubbed his shoulder. “And elbow me in the shoulder. Three times.”

At long last, Keyla began to stop struggling. “I’m, uh, sorry about that. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Feeling Ben’s grip slacken, the otter stood up and extended a paw. “Care to let bygones be bygones?”

Brinty and Blacktooth exchanged a look. “It’s…not really that simple, mate.” Brinty’s tone was almost apologetic. “See, there are laws around here, and assaulting a member of the Thousand-Eye Army isn’t exactly something that can go unpunished. Now, I know that you’re not exactly from here, and so there’s no way you could have known that, but still – you’ll have to come with us to Kotir.”

Keyla gave a start. “Kotir? Did you say Kotir?”

“Aye. See that big castle over there? The giant, dark shape in the blizzard? That’s it.”

“Really?” Keyla shook his head. “By the fur, I can’t believe I almost walked right past it.”

“It’s kind of hard to miss, even in a blizzard this bad.” Goody smiled. “But it’ll be a _lot_ warmer than out here, Keyla. And don’t worry about the punishment; you’ll get a fair hearing, especially since Gingivere’s the one doing all the judgement now.”

Blacktooth cleared his throat, still messaging it with a paw. “Right, I’d love to talk more, but we had really best be on our way back to the castle. Now, are you going to come peacefully, or do we need to bind your paws?”

Keyla shook his head. “There’s no need for that. Besides, I’m too tired to fight anyway.”

And then the three of them were off. Ben and Goody watched them trudge back through the snow for a bit, watching as their shapes faded into faint outlines in the blizzard. When those outlines had vanished, the two turned around and walked back towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if this chapter's a bit too saccharine at first; the idea was to draw a contrast with the first chapter of the original Mossflower, but I may have overdone it a little.   
> On another note, as always, any critiques as to how to improve my molespeak would be greatly appreciated. Never feel like I can actually do it all that well.


	3. Greeneyes

Days like this always made Martin glad to have an excuse to wander on down to the kitchen. The hot fires that powered Kotir’s great ovens were a highly enjoyable contrast to the frigid air outside, the crackling sounds of the logs similarly contrasting the howling, bone-chilling wind.

So, even given the circumstances, the moment he saw the kitchen’s great doors Martin was overtaken by a pleasant mood, something that increased when he saw the plump mouse currently hovering over a pestle of herbs.

“Evening, Gonff! I see Detta stuck you on medicine duty?”  
  
Gonff laughed. “It’s what I get for telling her to hurry up and kiss that Trudd bloke already, I suppose, but I couldn’t help it! I’ve never seen two stoats give each other that many romantic looks in my life. Or any creature, really, including Sandingomm and your brother.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think that was possible.”  
  
Gonff finished grinding the herbs and mixed them into a dark liquid. “Neither did I, matey, neither did I. Anyhoo, your father’s medicine is all done.” Handing the cup to Martin, he grimaced. “Have to say, though. I really don’t envy old Verdauga one bit – this has to be the bitterest thing I’ve ever made.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. Motherwort’s got quite the kick to it. One time, my father had to bribe Gingivere with a new book just to take a tiny cup of it.” The memory made Martin smile. _How long ago was that? I couldn’t have been older than, what, ten? By the fur, it feels like it was an eternity ago._ “You know, I doubt my father even remembers it anymore.”

“I just wish that the motherwort’d help with that, too.” Gonff looked down at his paws. “You know that your brother told me the other day?”

Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, but he found himself asking all the same.

“He said that old Verdauga called him Ungatt.” Gonff tilted his head. “Any idea who that might be? From how Gingivere said your father reacted he seemed like a nasty fellow.”  
  
“He was our uncle. Think Tsarmina, but somehow even worse. Honestly, it’s probably a small miracle that he died before I ever had the chance to meet him.”

The conversation lapsed, neither mouse sure what to say, or what there even was to say. After a long, awkward silence, Martin decided that he’d spent enough time in the kitchen and said goodbye. Once outside and alone, he took a deep breath to steady himself and started off towards his father’s chambers.

Almost poetically, the closer he got to the lord’s chambers the more and more damp the castle seemed to get. It wasn’t hard to see why; practically every fifth torch sconce was unfilled, its occupant pilfered by some creature looking to warm their favorite corner or to have a bit of extra heat while being outside. Sighing, Martin made a mental note to have Amber find those responsible. _Not that I really blame them for wanting to keep warm, but every torch they steal makes the area around father’s chambers that much colder and that much worse for him to be in._ They needed to be keeping the damp weather away from his bones, not drawing it closer.

He found Gingivere sitting on the staircase a few steps down from their father’s door. A scroll opened full across his lap.  
Martin sat down next to him. “What have you got there?”

“A list of all the executions father ordered over the past five years. Trying to find the most common reasons why.”

“Your law project still going, I take it?” He looked over and read a bit; in his opinion, it was all rather boring and repetitive. “Doesn’t that get a bit mind-numbing, reading things like ‘Pluggan, guilty of murdering three mousemaidens, hanging’ over and over?”

“Somebeast has to do it, and besides, it keeps my mind off…” he trailed off, but there was no need for elaboration: Martin knew what he meant all too well.

“Well, you need to put that down and keep your mind _on_ it right now.” Gently, Martin began folding up the scroll in his brother’s lap. “It’s time to give father his nightly medicine.”

Gingivere sighed, slipped the scroll back into his cloak, and stood to open the door.

Much like the kitchen Verdauga’s bedchamber was heated by a roaring fire, but where the kitchen’s fire warmed a creature’s bones and set them at ease the fire here reached into their chest and all but stopped the lungs from working. Instead of filling the room with a gently flickering light, Verdauga’s fire instead practically seemed to suck all the light clear out of the air.  
Between that and the smell of sweat and sickness emanating from the great four-poster bed on the opposite side of the room, Martin felt as though his father had already died, and that he was stepping not into the old wildcat’s bedroom so much as his tomb.

“Father?” Gingivere called out in a tiny voice. “Are you awake? It’s us. We brought your medicine.”

  
Slowly, the great, green curtain around the bed parted and revealed its occupant. Martin grew cold at the sight of his father, as he did every time when confronted with the shrunken wildcat that had once been the mightiest warlord in all Mossflower.

Eyes clouded and showing little of the fire that had once been in evidence, Verdauga gazed out at his sons. “Ah, Gingivere. And is that…Luke? You look better than the last time I saw you. Almost younger.”

 _He thinks I’m my father_. Martin’s paws were weak. “No, father, it’s me. Martin.”

  
Verdauga blinked. “What? Oh, yes. Sorry, Martin. Now, what was it you said you brought, Gingivere? My medicine?”  
  
“Yes, father.” Gingivere handed the cup to Verdauga with a paw that Martin noticed was quivering.  
  
Verdauga gave a snuff and frowned. “Motherwort, is it? Ugh, can’t stand the taste of this stuff.” He looked Gingivere clear in the eye. “Tell Aegle next time you see her to add in something to make the taste more palatable.”  
  
 _Who?_ Martin mouthed.  
  
Gingivere shrugged. “I…I will, father.”  
  
“Thank you, son. Now, if you excuse me, I need to rest. This medicine always makes me tired.”

  
Before anybeast could say another word, however, the great doors burst open. Martin whirled around, paws automatically dropping to where his swordbelt usually hung, and froze in confusion at the decidedly odd sight of a weather-beaten Blacktooth and Brinty pushing an even worse-looking otter he had never seen before through the doors.  
  
Verdauga, who had been reaching towards the bed’s curtain, immediately stopped and sat up as straight as he could. “What have we here?”  
  
Blacktooth saluted. “We found this one wandering around the edges of Moss Town, m’lord. He started fighting us when we offered him some help.” Messaging his neck, the ferret shot a nasty look at the otter. “Gave us quite a few punches and kicks, this bloke.”  
  
“Aye, m’lord, but only because – ” A weakly-raised paw combined with a kick from Blacktooth cut Brinty off mid-sentence.  
  
“It is against the law to assault my soldiers, otter. This is well known down in Camp Willow, is it not?” Verdauga closed his eyes a moment before opening them in confusion. “Hello? I asked you a question?” Some more moments passed without a response.  
  
Gingivere looked at Blacktooth. “He, uh, can hear, right? He’s not deaf, is he?”  
  
 _No_ , Martin thought, _he’s just too busy staring at me like he’s never seen a mouse before._ The otter had been gaping straight at him with an almost unbroken stare ever since entering the room, his jaw dropped straight to the floor, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. The effect was, Martin thought, rather unnerving.  
  
He was about to ask the otter to knock it off when Blacktooth prodded him with the butt of his spear. “Oi, Keyla! The lord asked you a question!”  
  
Keyla jumped. “Sorry, what was that? I wasn’t listening, sire.”  
  
Verdauga grunted. “I asked you whether or not it’s well-known down in Camp Willow that it’s against the law to strike soldiers in the Thousand-Eye army.”  
  
The otter – Keyla – shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Sire. I’m a traveler, see, from the northlands.”  
  
“Do you lot _normally_ go around punching innocent creatures up there?” Gingivere asked.  
  
“The lad said he thought we were trying to capture him. Seemed to think we were slavers, I think.” Brinty replied.  
  
“Aye. I’ve never met a ferret that wasn’t one, so when I saw Blacktooth here come at me I assumed the worse.” Keyla looked at the floor. “I panicked, sire.”  
  
“That’s bloody well for sure.” Blacktooth muttered under his breath, too quiet for anybeast to hear. Then, speaking louder, he addressed Verdauga. “What should we do with him, my lord?”  
  
Instead of answering, Verdauga leaned back in his bed and closed his eyes. “What do you think, Gingivere? I am tired, and so I shall leave this one up to you.”  
  
Gingivere gave a start. “M-me, father? But that’s…” Stopping himself, the young wildcat took a breath. “Actually, alright then.” He turned to his brother. “Although I’ll be getting your input as well, Martin.”  
  
“Fine by me.”  
  
Gingivere nodded before addressing Keyla. “Am I correct in assuming that you are a former slave yourself?”  
  
“Aye, matey. Er, sire. Escaped from fortress Marshank, I did.”  
  
“I’ve never heard of it. Have you, father?” There was no response: Verdauga had seemingly fallen asleep. “Uh, okay then. How about you, Martin?”  
  
“Only from the margin of a report Amber got from Skarlath. Supposedly it’s not exactly the cheeriest of forts, though.”  
  
Keyla couldn’t help but snort. “That’s putting it mildly, all due respect. Just before I escaped, one of the guards beat an elderly mouse to death just because she dropped some firewood.”  
  
Gingivere blinked before whistling. “By the fur. Did that happen often?”  
  
“Not to that extent, but it was a rare day that somebeast wasn’t beaten for some stupid reason or another.”  
  
“That would certainly support the idea that you’d panic easily. No offense,” Martin added quickly.  
  
“I agree.” Now Gingivere faced Blacktooth. “How bad would you say your injuries are? From Keyla, I mean.”  
  
“Well, they hurt like a moth – begging your pardon, m’lord. I mean they hurt a lot. Particularly my neck. Poor thing’s probably going to be sore for weeks.”  
  
“Can you still breathe well enough?”  
  
“I can. Still hurts a bit, though.”  
  
“What about you, Brinty?”  
  
The mouse shrugged. “I mean, my stomach and cheek ache were the otter elbowed me, but that’s about it. Nothing’s really broken.”  
  
“I see. Martin, what do you think? Any chance that their injuries might worsen and actually cause some damage?”  
  
“Probably not. That was what, at least half an hour ago that you three were fighting?”  
  
“Possibly? I kind of lost track of time after the ferret grabbed me.”  
  
“Thought so. That’s long enough that if anything was going to worsen to the point of doing a creature in, we’d know.” Martin smirked. “Odds are you three’ll just be sore as all get out for the next weak or so.”  
  
“I see then. Very well, I think I have enough to make a decision.” Gingivere closed his eyes, mulling it over. “Hmm… let me think… normally, the penalty for striking Blacktooth and Brinty like that would be… but in this case since there were extenuating circumstances…”  
  
Martin resisted the urge to give a theatrical cough into his paw in order to hurry his brother along. “But what is it father said a while back? ‘To let the accidental criminals roam free would read as a sign of weakness’ or something?”  
  
Gingivere opened an eye. “I’m not chopping off Keyla’s paw, if that’s what your hinting at.”  
  
“I wasn’t, just thought that you might appreciate the reminder.”  
  
A sigh escaped Gingivere’s lips as he closed his eye again. “I know, I know. Still…” He thought it over for a few more seconds before opening both his eyes. “I have decided.” After clearing his throat, Gingivere turned back to Keyla and stood as straight as he could. “Otter Keyla, while it is true that you are a stranger to our lands, it seems to me that not attacking an innocent creature would be a reasonably common rule everywhere. However, on the other side of the scales, it is clear that you acted not out of malice, but out of fear. Thus, while my brother is correct in that there ought to be some punishment, it will be a light one.” His eyes, which had achieved a piercing green Martin had never seen in anybeast save their father before, swooped over all the creatures in the room. “It is my judgement that Keyla is to put into one of the topmost cells in Kotir for a month, with a full bed and a blanket, so that he can cool his paws for a time. After a month has passed he will be free to go, or to stay if he wishes it provided he agrees to obey all our laws and rules going forwards.”  
  
It was a fair verdict, Martin thought, but all the same Keyla visibly paled as Gingivere pronounced his judgment. After Gingivere finished the otter turned his gaze back to Martin, as though imploring him to speak on his behalf, but rather than feel moved all Martin felt was mildly put out once more. _Why does he keep looking at me like I’m some kind of grand hero?_  
  
He couldn’t stand it any longer, Martin realized, and so he held up a paw. “Blacktooth, Brinty, wait a moment – before you take Keyla below, I want to ask him something.”  
  
Everybeast froze, and Keyla continued to stare at him.  
  
“Just answer me this: _why in the bloody hellgates_ do you keep staring at me like that? Have we met somewhere before?”  
  
The question snapped Keyla out of it, and after a vigorous shake of the head the otter answered. “No, sire. Well, not exactly – it’s more like I’ve seen you from afar. I was there when you fought Marshank’s lord, see.”  
  
Martin immediately felt the world bottom out from under him. _No…it can’t be…_ “Are you certain that I’m the same mouse?”  
  
“Aye, sire.” Keyla nodded at Gingivere. “He was there, too, along with a badger and another mouse. You fought Badrang to free them from slavery, I watched you duel.” He grinned. “I watched you win. It’s why I came all this way: us slaves need help, and I couldn’t think of anybeast better than the one who defeated Badrang Ironpaw once before.”  
  
The world spinning around him, Martin clutched the wall to keep from toppling over. “Blacktooth, Brinty. Forget what my brother said about putting Keyla in a cell. I want him in the guest chamber closest to my own chambers.”  
  
“But m’lord, Gingivere’s judgement was fi –”  
  
“ _No!_ ” Martin’s voice came out sharp enough to make everybeast jump. “I owe him that much. For the next month, Keyla will remain here as my guest.” He looked up at Gingivere, silently daring his brother to contradict him.  
  
Gingivere threw up his paws. “As long as he remains in them for the entire month, that’s fine by me.”  
Martin nodded and turned back to Keyla. _By the fur, what are the odds that one of BADRANG’s slaves turns up on our doorstep?_ He wasn’t sure whether to punch Keyla for rubbing his greatest failure in his face, or thank him for giving him the chance to atone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now Martin, the ostensible protagonist, actually shows up on the scene.  
> Also, as of 1:24 or so AM all the formatting errors should be fixed. No idea why AO3 wasn't spacing and italicizing everything properly...


	4. Badrang Ironpaw

The guest chamber – or his prison cell, as Keyla couldn’t help but think of it as – was probably the most upscale place Keyla had ever slept in his life. Used to bedding down on rags in the dirt with nothing softer than a blanket covering a rock to act as his pillow, when confronted with a featherbed like the kind Badrang used, complete with pleasantly fluffy pillows, the otter had absolutely no idea how to react. On one paw, it certainly was comfortable; on the other, the softness was unnerving to the point that Keyla was actively considering the idea of sleeping on the floor.

_At least that way it won’t feel like I’m about to sink into a pit of sand,_ Keyla thought as he tried to pat a little bit of stiffness into the pillows.

Another new experience for him was the fact that a roaring fire had been kindled in the fireplace shortly after Blacktooth had all but shoved him into the room, and so after giving up his endeavor with the pillows Keyla promptly sat down in front of the fireplace and let the warmth gently spread across his paws.

Several blissful minutes later, easily the most blissful in Keyla’s recent memory, the locks on the door snapped open and the door itself opened a tad.

“Keyla?” It was Martin. “It’s me. I want to talk some more.”

“Alright, sire. But may I ask a favor?”

“Oh?” Martin tilted his head. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I, ah, would really enjoy getting to stay by the fireplace. Forgive me, but I’m still feeling the blizzard.”

Martin smiled before walking over and seating himself next to the otter. “Don’t worry about it. Stay right here as long as you need to. On one condition, though.”

“Sire?”

“Stop calling me that.” Martin made a face. “ _Sire._ Ugh. Now there’s a title only the vile use.”

“Sorry, si – I mean, sorry. Old habit.” Keyla looked at Martin. “So then, what exactly should I call you? Not really familiar with southron titles.”

Martin shrugged. “Just ‘Martin’ or ‘Matey’ is fine if it’s informal like this.”

“Okay then, uh, Martin.” Keyla pronounced the name slowly, as though he’d never heard it before. “By the fur, that feels weird. Anyways, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

Fidgeting in place on the floor, Martin bit his lip. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I wanted to hear more about it. About Badrang and Marshank, I mean.”

The request, although far from unexpected, still made Keyla feel as though all the warmth was being sucked out of the room. A thousand memories began to flare up: mornings in which he was awoken by a kick to the stomach by angry paws, afternoons toiling in the summer heat building Badrang’s fortress, nights trying to ignore the moans from other slaves long enough to fall asleep. Each memory felt as fresh as though it had only happened yesterday, but all the same Keyla forced them back down. _I can’t lose my nerve in front of him. Not after I’ve come all this way._

Keyla took a deep breath and then began.

“Marshank is, in a word…cruel. Think the outer wall of this castle, except maybe about two-thirds, and with a second wall right behind made out of wood. It sits on the Eastern Coast far to the north of here, surrounded by cliffs and hills to the south and north and a bog to the west. The fortress, and us slaves, are ruled over by the vilest band of corsairs ever to sail the seas, as you probably remember from a few years ago.”

Martin nodded. “Aye. They certainly _seemed_ quite terrible.” Martin’s paws grasped the air, as though holding an invisible neck. “Particularly that one-eyed weasel.”

Keyla let out a humorless laugh. “You mean Hisk? Killing him was the best thing you ever did. Trust me on that, Martin. He was the worst of them, although the fox Skalrag’s pretty close.

“Anyways, the corsairs of Marshank are a hardened bunch. They still train daily with mock battles, and I’d wager an apple to an acorn that they’re still as deadly now as they were on the high seas. And believe me, Martin, when I say that there’s not a lick of decency to be found in any of ‘em.” Now it was Keyla that seemed to be strangling somebeast. “If I began counting the number of times I saw somebeast beaten for some stupid reason or another, we’d be here until spring at the very earliest. With rods, with paws, with spears…” Keyla shook his head. “I doubt there’s anybeast older than five that doesn’t have at least a few scars on their back.”

Martin paled. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘five years old’?”

“It’s the truth. There’s this one squirrel I know named Felldoh, Badrang himself used to give him regular beatings when Felldoh was just a babe.”

“A _babe_?” Martin’s eyes widened. “That’s…”

“Horrid? I know, matey. But it’s what Badrang is, when you get down to it: a great, big, bully.”

“What’s he like?”

Keyla thought for a moment: how best to describe the tyrant that had dominated his life as long as he could remember?

“Well, everything you need to know about Badrang you can get from the title he gave himself: Badrang the Tyrant. Or, as we call him, Badrang Ironpaw.” Keyla tried to keep the mingled scorn and rage out of his voice, but found it impossible. “He fancies himself some great lord and the destined ruler of the entire East Coast, with everybeast he encounters crushed underpaw, and all decent creatures his slaves. He works us from sunup to sundown, and on every task, you can think of: building, fishing, farming. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you sat me down and told me that he was going to start breeding us as a little side venture.” Keyla looked around and snorted. “Count yourself lucky that you’ve never had to suffer the company of a creature that vile.”

“I have.” When Keyla looked back at Martin the mouse was gazing into the fireplace, visibly caught up in some memory of his own. “I knew somebeast that set an entire forest ablaze just because innocent goodbeasts dared speak against them.”

“Oh…” Keyla took another look at the mouse’s face, one that had thus far seemed full of confidence and vigor, and was surprised to see a little of the same haunted look carried by all the slaves in Marshank. Not much, not nearly the amount Keyla saw when he looked at his own reflection, but more than he would have expected given Martin’s apparent status. “I’m sorry, matey, I never would’ve guessed.”

Martin waved a paw in dismissal. “It’s not your fault. And besides, my father was able to keep it from being nearly as bad as it could have been. Not to mention that we’re talking about Badrang here, not my sister.”

_His SISTER? THAT’s unexpected._ Keyla blinked, trying to process the information, before continuing.

“Oh, right. Now when I say that Badrang fancies himself a lord, I really mean it: he’d kill everybeast in a heartbeat to live in a castle like this, and the way that your brother talks actually reminds me a bit of him.” Seeing the look on Martin’s face, Keyla waved his paws and hastily added “But Badrang’s a lot less nice than your brother is.”

Martin decided to ignore the accidental slight. “How is he at fighting? He gave me quite the fight three years ago, to be sure, but that was back when I was only thirteen.” The mouse struggled valiantly to conceal a grin of pride before giving up. “Not to mention that he’s down a paw nowadays.”

Keyla found himself grinning as well. “Sorry to burst your bubble, matey, but Badrang’s still a formidable fighter. Trains with the spear and cutlass every single day, rain or shine, and I think he’s determined to never lose again.”

“So says them all.” Martin was quiet again, thinking. “But still, it’s good to know that I wouldn’t be facing down some crippled has-been so much as a formidable warrior.” He spat into the fireplace, getting a round of angry sizzles in response. “No, not a warrior. I won’t dirty that word.”

“Whether or not you call him a warrior won’t change the fact that he’s dangerous, although I suppose you’re probably stronger now as well?”

“Hmm? I…yes, I am.” Martin rubbed his left arm, looking away from Keyla as he did so before shaking his head. “At least, I’d like to think so.” Looking out the window, he sighed. “At any rate, it’s getting late, and you’ve given me a fair bit to think about.” Martin pushed himself up off the floor before turning and looking down at the otter still sitting in front of the fireplace. “Now is there anything that _you_ want to know? About Mossflower? About Kotir?”

Keyla did have questions, in fact, several dozen at the very least, but for some reason the one that came out of his mouth was the one that led him to ask “so, uh, how does that…work?”

“How does what work?”

“Well, um, you know.” Keyla gestured vaguely upwards in the direction of the Lord’s bedchamber. “You’re a mouse, your father and brother are cats… I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, how do a mouse and a cat…erm…ah…you know…” Keyla was blushing furiously at this point, and _completely_ regretted opening his mouth, fully expecting Martin to reach over and hit him for asking that sort of question.

Instead, Martin’s reaction – after gaping for a good half minute as his brain processed the implication of the otter’s stuttered and half-incoherent question – was to burst out laughing. It was a fully, hearty sound, and it immediately lifted the room’s mood.

“Oh, by the fur, _no!_ Keyla, that’s disgusting!” Shaking his head, Martin smiled and wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “That’s _not_ what happened. Not even close.”

“So then what _did?_ You didn’t just spring from the ground or something, did you?”

“No, I had a normal mother and father. Both mice, I will note. Anyways, to make a very, _very_ long story short, my mother passed away from the fever when I was a babe, and not long after my blood father gave his life to save Lord Verdauga, and because of that he took me in as his son. But before you ask, yes, he _is_ my father. No ifs, ands, or buts. Now, if you excuse me, I really do need to think over what you’ve told me.”

Martin turned and left after that, and as he did so Keyla heard him chuckling to himself.

“A mouse and a wildcat, by the fur, _what_ exactly are they _doing_ up north?”

Keyla’s guest room was only a landing below Martin’s own chambers, and when he’d left the otter Martin had truly intended to go back to them and think, but instead he found himself passing up the landing entirely and going up another flight, lost in thought, until he found himself outside Gingivere’s rooms. The crack under the doorway flickered with candlelight, and Martin guessed that his brother was reading some old judgement or another.

Standing on the landing, paw outstretched, Martin hesitated. _Is it really fair that I bother him? This is sort of my own personal problem, the whole Badrang situation, after all. Maybe I should just leave him be._

Turning around, Martin started back down the steps, resolved to reach a decision on his own.

Five pawsteps later he stopped again, the enormity of the decision crashing down upon him: if he refused Keyla and remained in Mossflower everybeast that the poor otter knew would remain a slave, he was well aware, not to mention that the guilt he still felt from his wager with Badrang would only intensify.

Yet at the same time…

_If I leave I’ll be gone for a while, and then father will… He’ll…_

Before Martin knew it, he’d run back up the steps and was knocking on Gingivere’s door.

“Gingivere? It’s me. I need to talk. Now. Please, it’s important.”

The door opened, and in the doorway Gingivere stood with a concerned look on his face. “I thought you’d be talking with the otter for a while longer.”

“I think we went over all we could for the night. He told me everything – about what it’s like up there, and about how cruel Badrang is, and I – I just don’t know what to do.” The words started to spill out before Martin could get the chance to control them. “Honestly he sounds almost as vile as Tsarmina, and the thought of leaving innocent creatures to suffer his rule just – it curdles my stomach. It really does. I _want_ to help Keyla, I do, but… at the same time…”

“But?” Gingivere raised an eyebrow.

“If I go, then what if I – you saw how father was tonight, didn’t you? He – he thought I was Luke. _He thought I was my blood father_ , Gingivere, even though he’s been dead for a decade and a half.” Martin realized he was crying now, and realized he was unable to stop that either. “If I go, what if by the time I return he’s – he’s _gone_?”

“Well,” Gingivere answered in a soft voice that Martin guessed meant that he’d spent a fair bit of time thinking about their father as well, “then it that case he will have passed knowing that you’re doing something that would make him proud. And you know how our father always prattles on about that.”

Martin half laughed, half hiccupped. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that.”

“And if you’re really worried about what he’d think, talk with _him_ about it. It’s not like you can go anywhere else, what with us all getting snowed in like this.”

“Perhaps I will.” Martin felt somewhat lighter, he realized, and at the same time somewhat more resolved to go and help Keyla.

He had only crossed the threshold out to the landing when he heard Gingivere call out his name. Turning, half expecting to see his brother about to leap out for a hug, Martin was amused to see that the wildcat was instead casually reclining against the doorframe.

“Before you go, I’m curious: is it annoying when your brother’s right all the time?”

Martin snorted. “I’ll tell you whenever I find that out.”

Gingivere closed the door with a jaunty wave, after which Martin started back down the steps.

As he did so he heard a great, tremulous sigh coming from his brother’s bedroom, as though somebeast was letting a hundred suppressed emotions loose at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that I'm telegraphing a certain event so hard that it can be seen across the pacific ocean, but come on - it's not as though it's unexpected. What's more important as what happens in the meantime.   
> Also, I wanna note that I really like writing Gingivere and Martin's interactions. As a brother myself, it's really relatable and fun to have them go from heartfelt to teasing each other in the space of a single conversation.   
> Also also, and I'm showing my weabooness from this, I kinda feel like "prover" by Milet is a good song for the two of them.  
> Also also also (I'll stop, I promise), apologies for the silly little bit between Keyla and Martin. It just amused me to throw in.


	5. Decision

Earlier, Martin had thought that his father’s bedroom had become more akin to a tomb than a place of rest, and as he returned to a room now devoid of even the sickly fire from earlier that feeling seemed even more apt. Eyes straining through the darkness to pick up some hint of light, Martin quietly walked across the room towards the sounds of his father gently snoring before halting just outside of the bed curtain. At least, he _thought_ it was the bed curtain, judging by the vague drape-like outline he could make out, although he supposed it was just as possible that he was standing in front of a window or something.

_Well, only one way to find out._ Martin cleared his throat.

“Father? It’s Martin again. Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if we could talk a little?”

“Huh?” Verdauga’s voice was fogged. “Martin? By the fur, it’s dark. Can you see alright out there, son? Did something happen?”

Martin was unable to hold back a smile. _Even when he’s sick, he’s still fretting over me._ “I’m fine, father. Somebeast just put out your fire so you could sleep. Frankly, I’m more worried about you – can you see alright?”

The answer took the form of a gentle snort. “I’m still a wildcat, aren’t I? Now hold on a minute – before we talk, let me open these blasted curtains a bit.”

After a few grunts of exertion Martin saw the curtains slip out of his field of vision, replaced with a pair of clouded, if still-piercing eyes. The effect would have been incredibly eerie, Martin mused, had he been anybeast else.

“Have at it then, son.” To Martin the eyes were not eerie, but comforting, as was the question’s gentle tone.

“It’s about Keyla, father.”

“Keyla? Who’s… ah, yes. The otter from earlier, right? Sorry, sometimes it gets hard to remember.”

“I know, father.” Martin bit his lip for a moment to suppress the emotions welling up before he pressed on. “Anyways, I’ve just been thinking about why he came. He said that Badrang’s set himself up a little empire on the Eastern Coast and…and I kind of feel like it’s… like it’s my fault.”

“Because you let him live?” Verdauga sighed. “Martin, there was nothing you could do as Bella and I have told you before. Still, let me guess: you feel like you need to make amends.”

“Exactly. I – I feel like I owe it to all the creatures he still has enslaved.”

“So what’s stopping you from going?” All the cloudiness had fled Verdauga’s eyes, leaving Martin under the same piercing gaze his folder showed every creature that faced his judgement.

As a result, Martin suddenly found it difficult to speak. “Well, I – I don’t…” A massive lump had formed in his throat, forcing Martin to pause and take a deep breath. “I’m not sure I should leave you.” He finished, almost too quietly for himself to hear.

“What was that? Speak louder, son.”

“I said that I – that –” _Deep breaths, Martin._ “That I’m not sure I should leave you.”

“Ah.” Verdauga’s eyes closed for a few seconds, the old wildcat lost in thought. “I should have known. Let me ask you this, Martin: what would you do if I was healthy?”

“I would go. Without hesitation.”

“Then you should go now, regardless of me.”

“But –”

“But what? Are you afraid that if you leave, I’ll die before you get back?”

“That’s not –”

“It is. Son, there’s no shame in that.”

The darkness swam, and Martin’s eyes burned. “I don’t want to lose you.” He whispered.

Slowly, gently, Verdauga’s paw reached out and ruffled the fur on Martin’s head. “Oh, Martin. I know. But you can’t live your entire life shackled to me. Otherwise, why even bother leaving this room? You still need to live your own life, Martin, no matter where that leads you.” The old wildcat chuckled softly, the laughter soon dissolving into coughs. “Unless you’re actively waiting for me to die?”

Martin laughed as well, in spite of himself. “Do I _look_ like Tsarmina?”

“No, you’re too short. Now, son, it’s getting late and I’m still old, so I’ll leave you with this: I say go. And if it means that you’re not at Kotir when I pass on, then so be it. It will be enough to know that you’re away because you’re fighting to free other creatures from their chains.”

***

“So you’ve decided, then? You’re going?” Gonff set down his knife and looked at Martin, curious.

The other mouse nodded. “Well, probably. Unless something more pressing comes up that is.” He’d spent most of the night thinking it over, tossing in turning in the darkness of his own chambers, only falling into a fitful sleep upon deciding that heading north was the right call.

“Like what?”

“I dunno.” Martin vaguely waved a paw through the air. “Some giant horde from the south or something. But pretty much anything short of that? I’ll be heading out.” Now Martin was the one favoring the other with a curious look. “Any interest in coming along? Get revenge on the scum from three years ago?”

“Maybe. It _would_ be nice…” Gonff looked out the window. “How long’ll we be gone for? A few months?”

“At least.”

“I’ll have to run it by Ben and Goody first, then.”

“Why? Don’t think they’d stop you if they knew it was me asking you along.”

Gonff rolled his eyes. “Because you know that nice tax break they have under your brother’s laws? I leave, that goes away, so I need to make sure they’ll be able to make do. My life doesn’t just revolve around you, matey.”

“I never said it did.” All the same, Martin felt chastened. “Actually, you’re right. Sorry if I’ve been taking you for granted.”

Gonff shrugged. “Just don’t make a habit of it. Make no mistake, Martin: I do want to go, I just want to make sure the family’s good with that first.” He gave Martin a significant look. “You’ve been doing that too, haven’t you? Unless you mean to tell me that neither ol’ Verdauga or Gingivere know about this scheme of yours.”

“They _do_ , thank you very much. I talked it over with both of them last night. I’m not going to run halfway up the world and leave my family in the lurch without –” It finally dawned on him what Gonff was doing. “Okay, forget everything I said.”

Gonff smirked. “You know, for the son of a lord you’re really kind of rubbish when it comes to winning arguments.”

Martin coughed into his paw to hide the embarrassment. “Believe me, normally I’m better at it. Now, would you mind if I grabbed a few things for Keyla? I want to bring him breakfast when I tell him the news.”

“Sure, go ahead. Again, it’s your family’s castle, matey. I just work here.”

Martin walked over to the shelves and began to stuff a few dried fish into one of the bags strewn around the kitchen, selecting a nice variety before tying the bag up and slinging it over his shoulder. He then grabbed a small jug of wine and a pair of cups, hoping that Keyla had nothing against Black Pine.

He found Keyla pacing the room, clearly agitated. Upon hearing the door open the otter looked up and began to sink into a bow before stopping himself.

“Morning si – I mean, Martin. Have you given any more thought to going after Badrang.”

“I have,” Martin began as he sat down and put down the wine jug before undoing the tie around the bag, “and I thought you might like to discuss it while we eat.”

Keyla gave the wine a sniff. “What’s this stuff? Doesn’t smell familiar.”

“They don’t have Black Pine up in the Northlands?”

Keyla shook his head. “The only drinks Badrang let into Marshank were cheap ale and the occasional bit of Damson for himself.”

Martin poured a cup and passed it to Keyla. “Well then, to new experiences.”

Keyla took the cup and sipped. “This stuff tastes…interesting.” Setting the cup down (as far away as he could without making it conspicuous, Martin noticed) he turned to the food, the otter’s face immediately lighting up. “Fish look great, though!”

“I’m glad. I only had what the otters from Camp Willow like to eat when they come by to go off, so there was a lot of guesswork involved.”

“You did a good job, matey.” Keyla said between bites. “So when did you want to leave? I’d like to get going as soon as possible, but I suppose I need to stay here for the whole month your brother set down?”

“Aye. And even longer, to be honest with you.”

Keyla froze mid-bite. “L-longer? How long are you thinking?”

“Mid-spring. I want to give winter enough time to break completely before we leave.”

Keyla leapt out of his seat. “ _Mid-spring?_ Thousand pardons, sire, but are you _insane?_ If we wait that long who knows what Badrang’ll do to everybeast?”

“Keyla, look outside. Do you really want to fight your way through all that again? We’d probably all die before we even set eyes on Marshank.”

“All the same, we can’t wait until the middle of spring to leave. What about the beginning of spring? It’s about a month and a half earlier than you wanted to leave, yes, but the weather’ll still be a lot better. That way we’ll still have time to plan, and we’ll still be able to stop at least _some_ of Badrang’s cruelty.”

Martin thought about it. On one paw, if they left at the beginning of spring here it was likely that they’d march right back into winter once they got far enough north. On the other paw, it was certainly better than leaving in the coldest parts of the year, and it would also mean that they’d stand a better chance of avoiding the worst parts of the summer.

“First days of spring it is. I’ll have to get an exact date for you later.”

Keyla gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Martin. So, what do we do until then?”

“Well, I figured we could start with you telling me more about the fort itself – how Marshank’s constructed, any weaknesses, how the guards set up their shifts…” Martin trailed off, a though suddenly occurring to him. “Although, now that I think about it, how good are you at fighting?”

“Me? I can fight with my paws well enough, I suppose, or I could jab somebeast with a knife if I need to, but that’s about it.”

“Any interest in learning more? Proper knifework? Swordplay? Archery?”

“All three would be useful, probably. Why? I don’t think there’s much we can do if I’m still cooped up in here all the time.”

“I’ll talk to Gingivere about letting you go out to the yard to train. He’ll probably sign off on it provided it’s only that one place.”

“I see.” Keyla took another bite of fish. “Also, if we’re going to make proper plans and all, can I ask for something else?” Suddenly embarrassed, the otter looked down at the table.

“What is it?”

“Actually, forget I said anything. It’s stupid.”

“Keyla, I won’t think less of you for anything. You can tell me.”

“Well, um…” Keyla’s gaze dropped even further as he muttered, finally settling on the floor. “I don’t know how to read.”

_Oh, right._ Martin realized. _That makes sense, especially since he’s probably been a slave for a WHILE._ “You wouldn’t be the first creature I’ve helped with that, matey.” Standing up, Martin walked over and grabbed one of the books left for guests to read. “In fact, why don’t we start after breakfast? We can begin this today, and then work on your fighting tomorrow?”

***

When tomorrow came, Keyla’s head still hurt a bit from all the complications surrounding letters, particularly how a ‘c’ sounded like either an ‘s’ or a ‘k’ depending on the context. _Personally_ , he thought to himself, _they should just do away with the whole bloody letter and let the other two take over for it. I really hope that learning how to fight’s not this confusing._

Keyla was escorted out of his room around late morning, with two Thousand-Eyes hovering behind him while a third led him down the various corridors and staircases of the castle and out to the massive yard in front of the central keep. Somebeast had cleared away most of the snow since last night, leaving a wide open space of frozen earth in the middle, on which Martin stood alongside a squirrel and another otter. _Wonder whether that’s a coincidence, them both being Woodlanders? Probably not._

Keyla and his escort stopped about ten paces away from Martin, after which the three soldiers left to take up positions back by the exit. As they did so Martin stepped forwards and gestured at the squirrel standing to his right.

“This,” he began, “is Lady Amber, Captain-General of the Thousand-Eyes and the finest archer in all Mossflower. And this,” he gestured to the otter, “is Mask, one of the most best creatures around when it comes to knifework.”

_Huh,_ Keyla noticed, _no swordsbeast. I wonder if he couldn’t…_ his gaze dropped to Martin’s waist, and was suddenly struck with the realization that the mouse had a swordbelt on.

_Find…_

Along with a sword in the scabbard, both of which looked completely functional and in no way just for show.

“You know,” Keyla heard himself say, “when I set out to get help fighting Badrang I wasn’t expecting you to, you know, actually train me.”

Martin looked slightly offended. “Would you rather train against a creature that looks like the ones that’ve been waving swords around you at Marshank? No? Thought not.”

Lady Amber cleared her throat. “Calm down, Martin. I’m sure the lad didn’t mean anything by it. Now, Keyla, trust me – Martin’s the best swordsbeast in Mossflower, no ifs ands or buts. In fact, I’d wager all the acorns I have that he’s beaten every _other_ swordsbeast before. He’s certainly done all of my Thousand-Eyes.”

“Also, before we start,” Mask added, “we should probably lay out a few ground rules. How hard are you comfortable with us going at you, son?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some of us” – Mask shot Martin a dirty look – “can get a little, ah, _intense_ when doing this. Physically intense. Normally there are bruises involved.”

Keyla absentmindedly waved a paw over one of the spots Blacktooth had struck him. “Let’s avoid that, please? Can we just go over the basics for now?”

“Fair enough.” Martin handed Keyla a wooden sword and then grabbed one of his own, undoing his swordbelt and letting it drop to the ground. “Sorry, mate, I should’ve figured that. Anyways, whenever you’re ready, raise your sword like this.” Martin dropped his sword into some sort of position right above his hip. Keyla tried to copy him, but evidently whatever he was doing wasn’t good enough as Martin shook his head and walked over.

“No, the way you’ve got it now’s too weak and too open.” The mouse put a paw on Keyla’s arm and forced it down. “Feel the difference?”

Keyla realized that the whole affair was like to be a _long_ process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More talking! Next chapter I'll get them to leave, I promise.  
> Couple of side notes:  
> -When it comes to opinion of wine, I'm in agreement with Keyla here. More of a cider guy, personally.   
> -One thing that's really bugged me for a while about the whole Redwall-verse is the fact that a LOT more creatures are literate than really have any right to be. Now obviously anybeast that's from Redwall or Salamandastron probably learned how to read as part of their cirriculum as dibbuns, but former slaves or creatures like Gonff - who were effectively what we would think of as peasants or sustenance farmers, very few of whom could read up until the past few centuries in most places - tend to be far more literate than they have any right to be. Of course, by the same token it's a bit of an annoyance to be reading a book and have much of the cast be unable to read/write letters or other items, which is why I'm taking advantage of the time skip here to have Keyla learn.


	6. Farewell, Mossflower

Spring was finally just around the corner, the change in seasons heralded by the first, tenuous breaks in the cloud cover and by a few, faint but present, warm winds from the south. The snow was finally beginning to melt, sending drips of water cascading down the stone walls of Kotir as the snowdrifts that had built up along the parapets began to disappear.

All the same, the only drips Keyla was aware of were the drips of sweat falling from his paws as he struggled to keep his grip on the practice knife. It was his last day of training before he and Martin departed for Marshank, and it seemed that because of that his tutor was going to wring every single seconds’ worth of training out of him. And so Mask had run Keyla through so many exercises that the otter had lost count, including a few rounds with a small, ridged thing called a swordbreaker, and now they were busy trying to pass the knife from one paw to the other.

“It’s a lot harder than it looks.” Mask explained. “Grab too high, and you’ll grab the knife part and slash your own paw open. Too low, and you’ll drop it.”

Keyla tried a few passes back and forth. “Doesn’t seem all _that_ difficult, matey. Even with the sweat.”

“You’re standing straight up,” Mask pointed out, “and it’s the middle of the day. Trust me, it’s a lot harder to pass it when you can’t see the whiskers on your face or when your body’s making an L-shape. Or when you’ve got other things occupying it, for that matter.”

“Like some vermin scum trying to wrestle you to the ground, I imagine?” Keyla smirked.

“Aye. So, what would you rather try first: doing this at an angle, or without seeing?”

“Without seeing, I guess?”

“Alright, then.” Mask unwound a green sash from around his tunic and handed it over to the other otter. “Tie this around your eyes. Oh,” he added as Keyla got to work setting the knot in the back tighter, “and sorry that we’re only getting to this on the last day. Truthfully, I really wanted to start it last week, but the kid was acting up.”

“You have a kid?” Keyla hadn’t heard about that before.

“Aye. My son Veil. Little guy’s the most stubborn ferret in the world, believe me. Especially when he wants candied nuts.”

“Your son’s a _ferret?_ ”

“I thought I told you about him?” The confusion was evident enough in Mask’s voice that Keyla knew the other otter was staring at him. “I married his mum about three and a half years ago after we rescued her from a bandit camp.”

_Well, what do you know?_ Even after spending a solid two months or so in Mossflower, Keyla still found the amount of mixing between different types of creatures incredibly strange; having come from a place where the only relationships between creatures like ferrets or rats and creatures like mice or squirrels were those of bitter enemies, he was still wrapping his head around the idea that they could be close friends. Or, in this case at least, family. _It’s actually really nice, though. I have to admit, I really wish that things could’ve been like this up north._

Shaking his head once again at the strange country he’d come to, Keyla readied himself for more training.

It was, Martin reflected, a pleasant way to wake up: the warmest day so far this year, a cup of wine on the way up, and the sounds of two creatures going at it in the yard. Walking over Martin opened his window and looked down, watching as Keyla attempted to throw around a knife with what looked like some kind of blindfold covering his eyes. He was doing pretty well, Martin thought, only fumbling perhaps one pass in twenty.

Watching the two practice, all of a sudden, a memory from long ago came to the forefront: one of his first days of sword training with Bane, struggling in the yard to land a single hit before finally managing a single whack against the fox’s ankle. At the time it had seemed like the greatest accomplishment imaginable, and he’d felt like a mighty, unbeatable warrior. At least, until Bane cracked him over the head and Tsarmina tried her best to smash his stomach in.

_But now they’re gone, and I’m still here._ Tsarmina’s absence was her own fault, the result of an unrelenting cruelty that still made innocent creatures shudder even to this day, but Bane…

Even now, years later, the sound of Bane’s spear puncturing the fox’s own throat still hurt to remember, as did the sight of the life fleeing a creature that Martin had looked up to for his entire life. But it was an old hurt, Martin knew, and one that he had thought he’d long since learned to live with.

Martin closed his eyes and tried to picture Bane in his prime, back when he was still a young mouse, but it was difficult. Details kept slipping in and out, to the point that Martin almost started to wonder if he wasn’t really remembering Bane so much as a generic fox.

He sighed and turned to look back down at Keyla and Mask. _Perhaps that means I’m moving on._

“My lord Martin?” There was a knock on the door. It was Peony, a young squirrel that worked in the kitchens with Gonff. “I brought the wine you asked for. And some bread.”

“Come in.” Martin took the goblet and sipped it. “Now that hits the spot. Thanks, Peony.”

The squirrel blushed and shyly looked away. “Oh, it’s no prob – I mean, you’re welcome, Martin.” Looking up, Peony took a closer look at Martin. “Is everything alright? You look, well, kind of sad?”

“That obvious, huh? Just thinking about an old fox I once knew. He…he passed away three years ago during the liberation of Mossflower.” Martin waved a paw. “But that’s old news. Has Detta finished all the preparations for tomorrow?”

“She has. Just put in the finishing touches last night. Two packs’ worth of supplies, right? And a few extra canteens?”

“Just two, then?” It was sad, but not unexpected – he’d never gotten an answer from Gonff about whether or not the other mouse would be able to go with them, after all. _The Stickles probably can’t do without the tax break._ Still, it was going to be lonely, going north without his cheerful friend to keep him company.

“Just two. Although…” Peony’s voice trailed off. “I _do_ remember a few things going missing from the larder over the past few days. But I suppose it could just be somebeast breaking in.”

Martin laughed. “No, it’s probably just Gonff getting into the whole ‘Prince of Mousethieves’ act again. I’ll ask him about it when I say goodbye tomorrow.”

A thought occurred. “Say, Peony? Is my father awake?”

“Lord Verdauga?” Peony frowned. “I think so, why?”

“Well, I just thought maybe it might be good to get the farewells out of the way now.”

“How come? Aren’t you not leaving until tomorrow?”

“We are, but the idea was to leave at first light. Saying farewell to everybeast then might drag out our leaving too long, and that’s assuming that my father’ll even be awake then.” Martin shrugged. “So it just seems to make more sense to do it now.”

The curtains in Verdauga’s chamber had been drawn wide open, allowing a wide swath of sunlight to enter and illuminate the head of the old wildcat’s bed. Peering through the dusty sunbeam Martin saw that his father was in fact awake, reading a letter that looked like it came from Salamandastron.

Verdauga set down the paper when he noticed his son standing in the doorway. “Martin? That is you, right?”

“Yes, father.” Martin was relieved to see that his father seemed to have his wits about him today; it was becoming less and less common as of late.

“You’re not leaving for the north, are you? Surely it’s not spring already.”

“We leave tomorrow. I just wanted to come by today and say goodbye now, if that’s alright.” The word ‘goodbye’ had caused yet another lump to settle in Martin’s throat, one that he tried to quickly swallow. “Better than waking you up tomorrow before half the castle’s even awake, right?”

Verdauga chuckled softly. “That’s true, I suppose. Particularly when the one being woken up’s a creature as old as I am.” Still smiling, Verdauga looked out at his son. “You know, some days I feel like yesterday you were still just a tiny mousebabe, little enough to fit in my paw. But look at you now: about to go out on your own wanderings.”

Martin smiled back. “Remind you of a certain other wildcat? One that carved out a kingdom for himself?”

“Perhaps. And who knows: maybe you’ll find your own Mossflower to lead out there.” The old wildcat gave a start before leaning over, wincing as he put pressure on his hip. “Ah. That reminds me.” Opening a small drawer on his bedside, Verdauga withdrew a small locket. It was solid gold, laden with a number of green emeralds set in the shape of an eye. “Take this with you, so that in the event that you _do_ find some land of your own to call home you’ll always have at least some token of Mossflower with you.”

Martin took the locket, finding it surprisingly heavy, and he realized that it had some writing etched on the back:

_May this connect you to Mossflower, as you did to the Woodlanders._ As Martin traced the writing with his paw and moved to set the locket around his neck, he heard a tiny shuffling noise, almost too quiet to hear.

“Father, is there something in this?”

“Perhaps.” Verdauga’s eyes briefly lit up with mischief. “You’ll just have to figure that out for yourself. Think of it as a puzzle to keep yourself occupied on the journey north.”

“I, uh, I will, father.” _I guess?_ Martin found himself unsure of what to make of the whole thing.

“Good lad.” Sighing, Verdauga reclined back in bed. “Alas, it seems that even this short talk has gotten me all weary. Allow me to share one final piece of advice, then: no matter what happens, no matter where you go and what you’re doing, you will always be my son. You will always be a Greeneyes.” And with that, the old wildcat closed his eyes.

Martin, knowing that their conversation was at an end, silently walked over and kissed his father’s paw. Then, without another word or glance back, he turned and began to leave.

“Martin?” His front paw had already crossed the threshold when Verdauga spoke again.

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you, son.”

“Thanks, father.” _I’m really going to miss you._

***

Dawn the next day came earlier than Martin would have liked. It was a cool morning, and it had rained the night before, so the entire landscape surrounding Kotir was covered in a low fog. Martin woke up, took one last look at his room, and grabbed his sword before heading over to the door. A moment later he paused and turned around, grabbing both the locket his father had given him the night before and a tiny, black rock that Bella had given him on her last visit from Salamandastron.

Keyla was waiting for him on the dew-covered grass, along with Gingivere, Amber, and Sandingomm. Martin found himself smiling upon seeing her.

“Well now, I can honestly say I didn’t expect to see _you_ of all creatures up to see me off.”

Sandingomm put her paws on her hips. “And why not? You should know me better than that.” Bending down, the wildcat gave Martin a quick kiss on both cheeks. “Stay safe, Martin.”

“You too.” Martin returned the gesture. “Oh, and look after Gingivere, will you? You know how he gets.”

She laughed. “Oh, I do. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t get himself into any scrapes.”

“Ahem? Right here, you two?”

Martin gave his brother the most simpering smile he could muster before turning to Amber. Visibly suppressing her own laughter, the squirrel held out a green bundle.

“Here. It’s a better cloak than anything you’d’ve gotten standard-issue from the castle stock. Trust me on that – it’s made from the material we use scouting in the forest.”

Martin took it and shook it out, and as he did so a small, silvery shape dropped to the ground with a _thump_. He picked it up and examined it: the shape turned out to be a knife, recently made with a leather hilt and inlaid with a small eye on the pommel.

“For luck.” Amber explained. “Just so you have a backup weapon or three.”

“I understand. Thank you, Amber, not just for this, but for everything.”

Amber smiled again before dropping to one knee. “At your service, my lord, now and always.” Without standing up she nodded towards Gingivere. “Now hurry up and talk to your brother before he bursts, will you?”

Martin hadn’t taken any more than a step towards his brother when the wildcat leapt forwards and grabbed him in a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you, Martin. A lot.”

“I know, Gingivere. I’m going to miss you too.”

“Just be _careful_ , will you? I – I don’t want to hear one day that you’ve gotten yourself killed in some dark pit on the other side of the world from Mossflower.”

Martin stepped back from the hug. “I’ll try. And in return, you take care of yourself as well. I’ll try to come back, promise, and you’d better be waiting for me.”

“If I don’t burn Mossflower to the ground, first.” Gingivere muttered.

Martin rolled his eyes. “Gingivere, you’ll do fine.” Grabbing his brother’s paw, Martin gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ve known you as long as I can remember, and believe me when I say that you’ll be a great lord. I have faith in you.”

“Thanks, Martin. That means –”

He was cut off by the sound of pawsteps coming from somewhere towards Moss Town. All five of them turned, suddenly tense, and watched as a shape appeared in the fog.

A shape that, as it got closer, Martin realized was oddly plump…

He narrowed his eyes. “Gonff?”

Sure enough, seconds later Gonff came bursting out of the fog, sprinting so fast that it was all Keyla could do to leap out of the way before he got barreled over.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going, matey!”

Gonff came to a stop and turned around with a surprising amount of balance. “Sorry about that. Oh, good – didn’t miss the sendoff. Was getting a bit worried about that. I _was_ going to surprise you a little ways down the road, but unfortunately a certain hedgehog by the name of Posy thought it would be just swell to chase me around with a stick half the night. Just got up a few minutes ago, so sorry if I still look like a complete mess.” Grinning, he pulled a small brown bag off his back and waved it in the air. “Managed to grab my supplies, though. Got my flute, got my water tin, got a bit of food…”

“Hang on a moment.” It was all too much for Martin to process at once. “So you _are_ coming? You could’ve told me, you know.”

“Well yes, but that would kind of ruin the whole ‘surprise’ now wouldn’t it, matey?” Gonff looked around. “Well, since I’m assuming that nobeast else is coming, what say we get this quest proper started and get moving?”

Keyla nodded. “Aye. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Is that good for you, Martin?”

Before answering, Martin turned around and looked up at the great shadow of Kotir hidden behind the fog. The realization that he was almost certainly never going to see his father again broke over him like a wave, and all of a sudden Martin was filled with regrets, questions he’d never gotten around to asking, missed opportunities, foolish arguments.

He breathed in, and then out. He’d said his goodbye and made peace with it. After taking one last wistful look back, Martin turned back to face Gonff and Keyla.

“Yes. Let us depart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ye gods, this wound up as a long one. But I said that I'd get them all out the door next chapter, and I meant it. I think it turned out alright - got some foreshadowing in, some red herrings...  
> By the way, expect to hear from Salamandastron fairly soon. I've gone far enough without at least checking in on them, I think.   
> One more side note, just 'cause I'm curious: any of y'all interested in hearing the music that I tend to listen to when writing? Or sharing some stuff that you think would make good writing music? I'm looking to diversify my listening experience a little.


	7. The Thawing Forest

“You know,” Gonff remarked, “it’s always weird going from the area your sister burned to other parts of the forest.” The mouse waved a paw vaguely around the forest. “Completely dead to completely alive, all within maybe ten minutes’ worth of walking.”

“It’s winter, so technically it’s pretty much _all_ dead.” Martin replied before taking another look around. “Still, I know what you mean. It’s like the silence here almost feels more comforting somehow.”

“Hold on a moment.” Keyla turned to Martin, eyebrows raised. “That big patch of burned forest’s your sister’s fault? What happened?”

“It’s a long story.” Martin shrugged. “Let’s just say that Tsarmina was never one for subtlety, and it was her way of trying to flush out the Woodlanders in order to force them to work.”

“Ah. _That_ sounds familiar. Let’s hope that she and Badrang never meet up, then.”

Now _that_ was a terrible thought, Martin realized. Especially since they had no idea where Tsarmina was – the last reports from Whitear had put her somewhere up in the far northlands, near where the Greeneyes family initially came from, and although it was possible that she’d decided to settle there it was just as possible that she’d continued to move somewhere else. _What would she even do if she came across Marshank? Would she try and conquer it? Offer an alliance with Badrang?_ The idea of an alliance between warlords as cruel as the two of them made Martin shudder.

The three of them walked on, mulling over the prospect, listening to the drip of water falling from trees and the occasional crunch of leftover snow beneath their paws. It was all remarkably peaceful, and yet Martin couldn’t shake a growing sense of dread and anxiety. Normally he would’ve chalked it up to the fact that once again he’d been forced to think about Tsarmina, a creature whose entire existence seemed tailor-made to gin up those sort of feelings, yet Martin had to admit that the feeling had been there long before she had come up in the conversation.

It was frustrating, being on edge and not knowing why, Martin decided. He took a hard look around as they rounded a large boulder, wondering if perhaps he’d subconsciously noticed somebeast tailing them, but saw nothing. He looked up soon after when they reached a forest clearing, just in case they’d been spotted by a bird, but the only things he saw in the sky were a few grey clouds.

Then it hit him: the unsettling feeling was coming from the land itself. It was nothing but the familiar landscape of a forest, no different from what he saw every time he went into Mossflower, and yet at the same time it felt, somehow, completely alien. On one level, it was silly: Keyla had passed this way a few months ago and escaped relatively unscathed. He’d passed through himself for that matter, three years ago, when he was going north to seek aid against Tsarmina.

But then they’d been in search of a definitive endpoint, and a safe one at that. Martin only had the vague notion of where Marshank was situated from his talks with Keyla, and what awaited them at their destination was not the safety of friends, but a hostile land inhabited by enemies. _I wonder if this is how father felt when he left grandfather Mortspear’s realm._

Martin observed his two companions, and for the first time noticed the tightness in Keyla’s throat as well as the way that the otter’s paw kept brushing up against the hilt of his knife. Then he looked over at Gonff, and saw the mouse walking with a gait entirely devoid of its’ usual swagger while occasionally taking furtive glances in all directions at the forest. _Clearly, I’m not the only with shot nerves at this point._ Martin resolved to address it as soon as they found somewhere safe to rest, both for his own sake and to reassure his companions.

The chance came soon enough, as less than ten minutes later Gonff’s ears perked up and twitched. “Say, mateys, a question: do either of you hear what sounds like a bunch of rustling?”

Keyla and Martin paused and looked at each other. “Actually,” Martin said as he strained to listen, “I think I do now that you mention it. Sounds like it’s somewhere to the northeast?”

“Think we should have a look-see?”

Martin thought about it. “Well, the way that I see it, if it’s only rustling then it’s not like to be any sort of creature. Either it’s a stream, maybe, or there’s something blowing on pines.” He looked around again, observing that the pines surrounding them were completely still. “And anything that can rustle a bunch of pines on a windless day is worth investigating. After all, it could be a cave we could rest in.” The three of them started off towards the sound, and several paces later Keyla held up a paw for them to stop.

“Martin, I’d say that your first guess was spot on. I think that’s a nice big stream up ahead, and no mistake. Want us to keep going?”

Martin took another few moments to listen, ears straining for the telltale noises of another creature. There was nothing but the soft gurgle of running water. “Aye. Maybe we can make camp there after all.”

Their path deposited them right on the edge of a stream that looked to be about as wide as Gingivere was tall, and a little ways to the south of a large group of mossy rocks that conjured up a miniature set of rapids. On the same bank as them there was a decently-sized outcrop just downstream from the rapids, one with an overhang large enough for the three of them to sit under. _Not a bad place to camp_ , Martin decided. _At least, once we take a look on the other camp to make sure that no hidden danger is about to come bursting down at us._

Keyla made an appreciative grunt as he stared out at the water. “You know, if we were farther into spring I think I’d go for a nice, long swim. By the fur, it’s been too long since I had the time to do that.”

Gonff walked over to the stream and gingerly dipped a paw in before yelping and leaping back. “I’d shelve that idea if I were you, matey. Blooming water’s colder than a midwinter night!”

“As long as we can drink it, the temperature doesn’t matter.” Martin walked down at cupped his paws, taking a sip. “Actually, I think it tastes better cold. At any rate, what say you two that we camp here for the night?”

Keyla nodded. “Seems as good a place as any to me. Although…” Voice trailing off, Keyla looked around the opposite bank and into the forest beyond. “Now that I think about it, if _we_ think this is a good place so might anybeast else around here.”

“I thought so as well. My plan was to go scouting ahead while you two set up camp. Sound fair?”

“Sure, matey.” Gonff opened his pack and took out a metal pot. “Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Martin turned, scanned the stream for the best way to get across, and realized to his dismay that it was still going to require him to wade straight through. _Oh, absolutely brilliant._ Gritting his teeth, Martin tightened his clothes as much as he could and then stepped gingerly onto the edge of the bank. Standing there, feeling the water send icy waves up his paws, Martin nearly lost his nerve before forcing himself to count to three and plunge straight in.

From the waist down Martin’s body was immediately enveloped in a frigid blast, one so painful that every step forced an involuntary gasp out of his mouth while reducing his thoughts to little more than a formless, rapid-fire spring of profanity and regret. Yet all the same Martin forced himself forwards and fought through the cold, focusing in on taking one pawstep after another, until after what seemed like a few hours he found himself clambering up the opposite bank into a bush.

Pausing a moment to stop his teeth from chattering, Martin turned back and looked at his two companions, feeling an immense wave of bitterness about their relative warmth.

“Gonff?” He called out. “Keyla?”

“Everything alright there, matey? Want me or Keyla to come over?”

“No, for the love of sanity, stay over there and don’t subject yourself to this. But listen to me, you two: when I get back and say it’s safe, there had bloody well better be a roaring fire ready to be kindled.”

Paws still unsteady from all the shivering, Martin grabbed his sword and began to clumsily hack his way through the bush. Behind it was a large expanse of trees, entirely flat save for a small rise perhaps ten paces away. He made for it and looked around. Again all he saw was a good deal of forest stretching out in all directions, and when he looked back towards the stream he was pleased to see that, even devoid of leaves, the bushes still did an adequate job of hiding the opposite bank and their campsite from any potential hostiles standing on this side. _That settles it. We’ll rest here._ Still, just to be safe, Martin took another look around before circling the rise outwards a further twenty paces. All he saw was forest, silent and peaceful.

He was about to turn and head back to the stream when, just barely in the corner of his eye, a black shape in the distance seemed to move.

Silently, as quickly as he dared, Martin drew his sword and turned. There was nothing. _Still nervous, eh, Martin?_ That had to be it, he told himself. It had probably just been a patch of falling snow or a shifting branch. _Everything’s fine. Just go back to camp, and let the other two know that – wait a second. Did it just get dark all of a sudden? The sun’s not going to set for a while…_

Martin looked up, curious, and only then saw the crow descending towards him. He leapt back and lowered his sword back into position, his years of training the only thing keeping him from losing it and screaming in terror, before clearing his throat and speaking with as calm and commanding a voice as he could muster.

“Afternoon, crow.” _That’s it, Martin. Keep the sentences short and simple, and it’ll be harder for him to hear the shaking._ “Nearly gave me a fright.”

The crow landed a short ways away and let out a heavy sigh. “That was the idea. Saves me having to flush out any mates of yours for myself, so it’s less annoying. So thanks for the extra work, mouse.” Looking around, the crow raised his voice. “Anybeast still hiding behind a tree, come on out! I’m not dumb enough to think that your mouse friend’s here by himself, so just come and get it over with will you?” As the moments went by and the crow’s entreaty was met with nothing but silence, he stopped looking around expectantly and returned his gaze to Martin, who in the meantime had been slowly edging back towards the bush.

Upon seeing it the crow rolled his eyes. “Please stop. And put that thing away while you’re at it – I’m not going to hurt you.”

Martin snorted. “Aye, because _that’s_ a new one.” He’d heard tales of crows before from Chibb and Skarlath, tales of villains that feasted on the flesh of living creatures and took their bones as trophies. “How about this: I’ll stay where I am if you stay where you are?”

“Fair enough. I only wanted to talk anyways.” The crow gave Martin a long, searching look that reminded him uncomfortably of his father. “You – you _aren’t_ alone, right? I wouldn’t think it exactly safe for a little ground-dweller.”

“Perhaps I am, but perhaps I’m not. What I don’t see is how it’s any of your business.”

“Are you _always_ this rude to creatures you run into, mouse?”

Martin lowered his sword a fraction, suddenly confused. So far the crow had reacted to him with nothing more than annoyance and second-hand embarrassment, and Martin had discerned any of the malice he normally would have expected from a creature bent on killing him. _Is this crow actually serious about just wanting to talk?_ He found it hard to believe, but even so…

Slowly, arms primed to spring back up, Martin lowered the tip of his sword until it was pointing to the ground. When he had made it all the way and still had gotten no reaction, Martin stood straight up again and looked back at the crow. “My apologies for the lack of courtesies, but I’m some way from home and don’t feel as though one can ever be too careful.”

“Particularly when talking to a crow?” The crow’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, spare me the denials, I know all about the tales you land-dwellers tell about us and how we’re supposedly cannibals. Well, for your information, carrion crows like me stick entirely to dead creatures. The only living things we eat are fish and the like. So as long as you’re still alive and kicking, you haven’t a thing to worry about.”

“That’s, erm, reassuring.” It really, _really_ wasn’t, if Martin was being completely honest, but this was probably one of those situations in which little white lies never heart anybeast. “In that case, I am pleased to meet you. My name is Martin Greeneyes, second son of Verdauga Greeneyes, lord of Mossflower.”

“The Greeneyes mouse? I’ve heard of you, actually.” The crow smiled and shook his head. “Should have figured, with that sword. Whitear’s the one who mentioned you.” He explained.

“You know Whitear?”

“Of course. Sometimes the old rat lets me steal a bit of plunder in exchange for scouting. Never lets me eat any of the bandits he and his group kill, though…” The crow drifted off, muttering about something, before blinking and extending his right wing out to Martin. “Ah, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m Bren.”

Martin decided to ignore the casual reference to cannibalism for the moment and took Bren’s wing, shaking it. “It’s a pleasure to meet a friend of Whitear’s. What brings you this far south, good crow?”

“Funnily enough, I actually have news Whitear wanted me to tell your father. And something else I noticed flying around one day that I think he really needs to know.”

“Oh? Is something going on up north?”

Bren’s face was grim. “There, and to the east. I’ll tell you about Whitear’s news in a moment, but first, I have a question: do you know anything about a place called ‘Loamhedge?’ Or about why the inhabitants would suddenly pack up and start heading west?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look. Two chapters in less than a week. What can I say? I've had a writing bug lately, and now that the LSAT's done I've got more free time.   
> Still, this is likely going to be the last new one for a bit - need to catch up on the Lilo & Stitch fic, plus order a few future chapters for this...


End file.
